


a tuesday kind of love

by constantblur



Series: they're lesbians, harold [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: F/F, flirty and domestic lesbians, this is just unrepentant fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 14:17:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11602356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/constantblur/pseuds/constantblur
Summary: What Mila’s owned for three years smelled like Sara after three nights.





	a tuesday kind of love

The days of the week tend to bleed together, time becoming a hazy concept that fails to hold much meaning in the constant rush of morning classes and evening jobs, grocery store runs when only the butts of the loaf of bread are left and last-minute loads of laundry. But today is Tuesday, and Mila always knows it’s Tuesday because they’re off-days. Meaning: days in which morning comes at one in the afternoon with strong coffee sipped slowly while breakfast cooks, and make-up is optional due to the fact that the only person she’ll see that day worth impressing isn’t actually worth impressing—Sara’s already seen her bedhead and mocked her for her morning breath right before kissing her anyway.

Today, Sara’s too busy typing away on her laptop to pay attention to anything else, so Mila doesn’t even bother getting dressed after polishing off the last piece of bacon and settling on the couch in the underwear and cami she’d slept in.

Mila paints another coat of violet over her toenails, trying to cover up the sky blue from last week that’s begun to chip away, and Sara glances over with a small smile and asks what the color means this time.

“Mm, could mean a lot of things,” Mila says. “Anything from _I’m mysterious and potentially a psychic_ to _I’d like to go down on you once the paint dries_.”

Sara sputters as her tea spills down her front, grumbles and curses the whole way to the kitchen, comes back out dropping insults like the layers of soaked fabric. Mila bites her lip to keep from laughing out loud as her eyes follow the pink shirt that falls on the floor, followed by the white cami, and then Sara’s shimmying out of her shorts. They get left on the floor as Sara walks to the bathroom, and Mila eyes the dark blue cotton panties that are snug on Sara’s hips. They’re not supposed to be sexy, Sara would argue, they’re just _comfortable_ , but anything on that body . . . 

Mila whistles.

“Pervert,” Sara calls, and slams the door.

Typical Tuesday.

They’re without a doubt the best days. It’s the only day of the week Mila can really enjoy Sara and her company without distraction; life itself draws them apart for all the rest of it.

As the polish on Mila’s toenails dries, the imperfections become more apparent: the dips into chipped spaces, the uneven color that’s lighter by the nail tip and darker by the cuticles. It’s not unexpected. Only the first coat on bare nails comes out clean, but she has neither the time nor the patience to strip the paint every week so she settles for this. Mila’s life has been a pattern of settling for imperfection, and maybe she likes it like that.

Maybe she likes the scar over Sara’s knee with raised edges that Mila’s nails catch on when she runs a hand down Sara’s leg, and maybe she likes that Sara hasn’t cut her hair in about a year and it sometimes looks dried out and frayed before Sara reaches the end of her patience and uses an off-day to deep condition. Maybe she likes that life itself draws them apart for most of the week so that Tuesdays become special, sacred, a reminder that no matter how bad the missing gets, the being together means so much more. Maybe she likes that she hasn’t really seen a movie in over a year because Sara always talks over them, and maybe she likes that Sara can be a real stubborn pain in the ass who will never admit when she’s wrong. And just maybe, she likes that she hates Sara half as much as she loves her because it keeps Mila out of line and crazed for her.

Sara strolls from the bathroom, towel tucked around her body and wearing a positively fetching scowl. “Where are your manners?” she says.

“What about yours?” Mila shoots back with a lazy smile. “The towel’s offensive.”

Sara flushes and mumbles something about an article that discussed couples losing chemistry when they constantly waltz around bare-skinned. Mila laughs, mostly because the thought of ever being anything less than desperate for Sara is absurd.

Sara’s coy smile says she agrees.

She slips into Mila’s bedroom to dress in whatever clothes she’d integrated into Mila’s closet. After all, there’s a lot of Sara around the place these days, from her laptop to her face wash, her favorite cereal and her scent. She’s everywhere, and Mila leans back into the couch cushions, drawing in a deep breath that smells like Sara’s cocoa butter body lotion. What Mila’s owned for three years smelled like Sara after three nights, and Mila smothers herself in what ceaselessly lingers, eyes shut, accepting her fate: Sara’s gonna be the death of her.

And that’s all right. Tuesday will always bring her around again.


End file.
